


Stay the Night

by dark_roast



Series: Extra Credit [4]
Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-25
Updated: 2006-06-25
Packaged: 2017-10-10 06:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_roast/pseuds/dark_roast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season Two (AU & futurefic)<br/>Rated R for language.<br/>Slight SPOILERS for Season One and Season Two (takes place circa 2x12, "Rashard and Wallace Go to White Castle.")</p><p>Stay the Night was written for The Veronica Mars "What If...?" Ficathon, so I guess that makes this an AU of an AU. Of the six options assigned to me, I picked: What if Caitlin didn't come back to Logan's suite at the Neptune Grand, near the end of <i>Sticks and Stones</i>?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay the Night

_Neptune, California -- 2018_

The concierge looked shiny-fresh. Right out of Hotel Management School. Little and smart and brisk in her tailored navy suit. She slid a keycard across the marble desk at Caitlin, barely making eye contact as she said, "Have a pleasant stay, ma'am."

"Thank you." Caitlin picked up her keycard and tilted it to catch the soft light in the lobby. A discreet golden room number surfaced in the silky black plastic: 1141.

"Excuse me," she said to the concierge, whose nametag identified her as "Brigitta."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You've given me the wrong key."

"No, ma'am."

"When I called for a reservation, I specifically requested Room 1149."

Brigitta didn't even glance at the data cascade shimmering in the air next to her like an opalescent mirage. "The Presidential Suite is currently unavailable. However, the suite we've provided you is very -– "

"I'd like to speak with your manager, please."

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but -–"

Caitlin repeated more firmly and more loudly, "I want to speak to the manager."

This time, several heads turned in the direction of the front desk.

The little concierge paled. Her mouth thinned, and then she murmured into the mini-comm hidden in her earring, "Mrs. Navarro, please come to the front desk. Mrs. Navarro to the front desk, please."

Caitlin smiled, and no doubt Brigitta believed the smile was a smug one. Another hotel guest had caused another fuss over Room 1149, had forced the manager of the Neptune Grand to come over and address yet _another_ difficulty, personally. But, Caitlin wasn't even thinking about Room 1149. She was thinking about Mrs. Navarro. Navarro wasn't that uncommon a name. It could be some other Navarro.

_Come on,_ she thought, fighting to keep her smile from widening into a giddy grin. _You know it isn't. You know it's Mrs. Weevil._

Weevil. Married. Incredible. Not impossible; Caitlin had always figured some smart girl would snap him up. She might have married him herself, if she'd been smart. If she'd stayed in Neptune. She hadn't; she couldn't. She'd run. All the distance she'd traveled, all the years and the miles, and her escape trajectory had been nothing but a vast parabola, swinging her back to Neptune. Back home. Back to the point where all things converged in a single rainy night with words unspoken and promises unkept. Back to Room 1149.

Brigitta said snottily, "The manager will be with you in just a moment, Ms. Ford."

"Thank you," Caitlin replied.

Her foot hunted in vain for a brass rail that wasn't there. The long counter would have made a perfect bar. She settled for laying her black leather portfolio on the concierge's desk, and leaning her elbows on the cool marble. Her feet hurt. She was jetlagged. Tomorrow was wall-to-wall meetings. Plenty of other hotels in Neptune. Plenty of other rooms in the Neptune Grand. She missed Hong Kong. She'd never been homesick for Neptune. Not once in twelve years. She wanted to go home. Her home. Where she belonged.

_What do you think you're going to accomplish, after all this time?_ she asked herself. _It's not like you'll get a good night's sleep. Not in that room._

Her gaze traveled restlessly around the huge lobby. Sleek and dark and modern, like the keycard in her hand. Swallowing light and gathering it into strategically placed pools, highlighting the minimalist artwork. Far different than she remembered, from her one time here.

The soft shush-shush of a heavy skirt brought her attention to the desk again.

"Miss Ford?"

The manager of the Neptune Grand was a tall woman about Caitlin's age, in a black business suit, her dark hair pinned up in a neat twist, her expression all cool politeness. She looked familiar. More sad, more wise; a thin veil drawn across the sweet teenage face Caitlin remembered. Brigitta stood halfway behind the manager, as if using her boss for a shield.

"I know you," Caitlin said. Her gaze flicked to the other woman's brass nametag. "You're... you used to be Gia Goodman, didn't you?"

Gia frowned, trying to place her.

Caitlin grinned. "We're Pirates born and Pirates bred --"

"-- and when we die, we're Pirates dead," Gia laughed, looking startled and delighted.

"I had Art History with you Senior Year," Caitlin clarified. "Mr. Paulson, fourth period."

Gia snapped her fingers. "Yes! You had short hair. And you never said a single word in class."

"That was me. And you married Weevil, huh?"

"Eli," Gia corrected her.

This time they both laughed. Brigitta made a sniffy noise, stamped to the other end of the concierge desk and started rearranging a gigantic crystal vase full of bird-of-paradise flowers with ferocious stabbing gestures. Caitlin winced, picturing broken stems and bruised petals.

"I'm sorry, Caitlin," Gia said. "We don't rent Room 1149. The Neptune Grand avoids that sort of publicity."

"I don't want publicity. I just want to stay the night."

Gia replied a little stiffly, "I don't get it. Explain it to me, please. Eli told me the two of you were friends. You and Logan, I mean."

"We were. I thought we were. The night... that night, I told him I'd come back. I didn't. The next time I saw him..." Caitlin looked away from Gia, feeling the threat of tears burn behind her eyes and nose. "I never saw him again, actually. It was a closed-casket funeral."

Gia laid her hand on Caitlin's arm; the light pressure startled her.

"You can't blame yourself," Gia said.

"I don't." Caitlin shrugged. "I know it's stupid, after all this time."

"There's nothing in Room 1149," Gia continued gently. "You won't find a single thing, except dust bunnies the size of tumbleweeds, and a really hideous decorating scheme that should've been retired ten years ago. And, okay, you've seen it, right? You've been in the Presidential Suite. Back when."

"Only once."

"Well, that designer, Howard Jermyn, he's insane. I mean literally. He's in a looney bin right now. Anyway. You know, Caitlin... I never got the chance to hang out with you in school. We should have lunch, before you leave town."

"Definitely," said Caitlin.

"The cleaning staff won't go into 1149 -- well, the _older_ staff makes the new employees turn the room every few months. Vacuum, change the linens, that sort of thing." Gia rolled her eyes. "They call it hazing the freshmen. But, I've been in the Presidential Suite a hundred times. Nothing's there."

"Then why not let me stay in it?"

"Because the hotel manager before me lost his job for that exact same reason. Some guy bribed him, then went straight to the media with his exclusive story about spending one sleepless night in the infamous Room 1149."

"You sure it wasn't the interior decorating that kept him awake?"

"Oh, I'm absolutely sure it _was_."

"I won't put you in that position, Gia. I promise. I just need..." Caitlin shook her head. "God, I don't even know anymore."

Gia's dark eyes were sympathetic. "Closure."

"Yes."

Gia reached under the concierge desk and pulled out a second keycard. Slid it across the marble. Caitlin's whole body quivered and seemed to come unstrung; she hadn't realized how taut she'd been holding herself for the last few minutes. "Thank you."

"Don't make me sorry I did that," Gia said. Then she grinned. "I'm kidding. I know you won't. And you're welcome. For old time's sake."  


***

"Nobody stays the night in 1149," the valet told Caitlin as he punched the PH button on the elevator panel. He was a skinny black kid with a winning grin. His brass nametag read "Darrell."

The elevator rose, or so she assumed. The ascent was so smooth she didn't feel a thing.

"The Grand finally stopped trying to rent the room in 2008. Officially. The President stayed here in 2012, and probably coulda gotten 1149 on the sly, but even she didn't want to stay in The Presidential Suite. There's no big reward for whoever can stick it out until dawn, either. Should be. That place is the genuine article. Great for getting chicks -- pardon me -- _women_."

"You bring your dates up to 1149?"

"Oh no," Darrell replied quickly. "I mean the stories are great material. Girls love hearing about how I work in a haunted hotel. For example, the former head chef told me Logan Echolls once phoned the kitchen for Room Service."

"What did he order?"

"He didn't get that far. That's why the former head chef is the _former_ head chef, if you get my meaning."

"Gia -– Mrs. Navarro -– told me there's nothing in Room 1149."

"She never sees anything. Doesn't mean nothing's there."

"So, the stories are true."

"They're true all right," Darrell replied. "Okay, come on. Spill it. You're not a reporter or a researcher. Why d'you want to spend the night in 1149?"

Caitlin glanced down at her hands. The strap of her purse twisted tightly around both of them. "I knew Logan in high school."

Darrell nodded sagely. "He liked you."

"No, not that way."

"Maybe he did. Guys can be pretty stupid about stuff like that."

"It doesn't matter how he felt. It wasn't strong enough to make him stay."

"Ah, not true. He's still there, Ms. Ford. He might just be waiting for you."

The skin on Caitlin's arms tightened with a rash of goose pimples.

Either not noticing her reaction or enjoying it, Darrell continued, "He liked you, so you'll be all right. Those people who hustle their way in -- those are the people he f -- screws with. There was one lady came running out into the hallway stark naked and dripping wet, swearing up and down Echolls slapped her on the ass. She wouldn't even go back in the room to get her clothes. 'Course that was before my time. I miss all the good stuff."

"I know the feeling."

The elevator doors slid open. Darrell picked up Caitlin's suitcase, then set it down again right outside the elevator. Room 1149 stood directly across the hall.

"I don’t like to get any closer," he said. "And I want to leave before you open that door."

Caitlin stepped out of the elevator and opened her purse. She handed Darrell a twenty.

He grinned. "Hey, thanks!"

"What happened to you in that room?"

Darrell shook his head. At first she thought he wasn't going to tell her, but he answered, "Last year, some paranormal research guy bribes the manager –- it wasn't Mrs. Navarro last year –- to rent him 1149 for one night. I come up with his bags, and I walk on into the room. Curious, you know? I'm waiting for my tip, looking around. From where I'm standing, I can see through the door of the bedroom, and out to the balcony. I don't feel like running and jumping off. Don't feel like the room is all full of Satan or anything. Then I turn around, and Logan Echolls is sitting on the couch."

Caitlin's eyes widened.

"I know you don't believe me," Darrell said. Not resentfully. More as if he knew better than she did. And he probably did. He added, "Echolls is just parkin' it. Feet up on the coffee table and a smirk on his face like he thinks this paranormal research guy is the biggest asshole ever to fall off the turnip truck –- even though _there he is_, right there on the fucking couch. Pardon my French."

"That sounds exactly like Logan."

"Then the paranormal guy asks me what the hell I'm gawping at. So, I tell him, right? And Echolls disappears in the time it takes me to blink. The paranormal guy pulls out all his equipment and he spends the entire night with his thermal cameras, looking for EVPs and electromagnetic spikes and traveling cold spots... and guess what he gets."

"Hmm." Caitlin put a finger to her chin. "Bupkiss?"

"Exactly. Big fat nothing. But, I know what I saw."

"Well, maybe he'll show up and slap me on the ass, for old time's sake." Caitlin said with a laugh that seemed to die in the echoless hallway, muffled by the thick, soft carpeting.

"Have a good night, Ms. Ford."

"Thank you," Caitlin said.

Darrell stepped back, and the elevator doors slid shut.

***

_"You don't look surprised," Caitlin said._

_More surprising than Weevil's lack of surprise was that he was here at all, and looking like he hoped he'd see Logan come sauntering over, suffering in his Sunday clothes like the rest of them, pulling his tie loose and snarking that if he'd known he'd get this big a turnout, he would've killed himself years ago._

_"That's 'cause I'm not surprised," Weevil answered. He ran a finger around inside the collar of his dress shirt, tugging it away from his neck. He looked out of place in his dark suit and tie, she thought. Out of place and grown-up and handsome._

_Weevil started say something else, and then he stopped as Veronica walked past them, huddled tightly against Keith Mars' side, in the shelter of his arm. She didn't look at either Caitlin or Weevil, and Caitlin realized she'd never noticed how small Veronica was. The force of her personality made her seem so much bigger. Maybe it was her new black dress and her stunned, lost expression that shrank her. Caitlin turned to watch her leave the church, becoming even smaller with distance._

_Weevil said, "You know how last summer me and the boys caught Echolls on the Coronado Bridge?"_

_Caitlin nodded._

_"He was up on the railing. Not like he meant to jump. Like he was hoping he'd slip. Or somebody'd push him. You get to that place where you're looking your own death in the eye and laughing, and maybe you back down, maybe somebody pulls you down, and you tell yourself you'll never go back there, that it's behind you, that you're gonna live your life now, come good or bad. But that place is still in your heart. That place where you felt real fear and real freedom, and it was all in your hands. Maybe you start to think of that place like a place of comfort."_  


***

Caitlin dropped her leather portfolio and her keycard on the sideboard. The Presidential Suite looked the same as she remembered, from her single visit. A smell of dust and disuse hung in the stale air. _Just say it_, she told herself. _It's a dead smell._ A smell of no one lingering a moment longer than absolutely necessary. No one speaking more words than they needed to, and even then, not above a whisper.

She closed the door behind her.

"Are you here?" she asked the empty room.

No answer. She kicked off her shoes and pulled the pins from her hair, shaking it free with her fingers.

She looked around the suite. On either side of the living room, a door opened into a bedroom. Which one had been Logan's, and which one Duncan's? No clue.

Logan had never succeeded in getting her as far as his bedroom, something which she'd congratulated herself about at the time, and now bitterly regretted. It wasn't like she didn't know what she was missing. That boy had had skills. She'd been so far gone for him, all he had to do was look at her sometimes, the light finding the planes of his face and the gold flecks in his eyes just so, and her heart started pounding so painfully hard, she was sure he could hear it.

At random, she picked the right-hand bedroom. Everything was made up neatly and impersonally. Plump bolsters and tapestry pillows stacked elaborately across the king-sized bed. Room service menu and note pad aligned precisely on the small desk. Television remote on the nightstand beside the phone. Like the living room, panels of rippled glass covered the bedroom walls, glowing gemlike with different colored lights. Cast iron fish and useless, abstract vases cluttered the shallow shelves.

"God," she said. "Gia's right. This is hideous."

Caitlin slid open the balcony doors, letting in a swirl of sea-scented wind. Stepping out, she leaned over the broad cement rail. Not much of a view. Eight years ago, Logan could have looked out over town and seen the ocean. A forest of glass and neon high-rises had risen since then, a landscape blurred dim and dreamlike by the misty drizzle falling over Neptune. The soft drone of an engine made Caitlin crane her neck, and overhead the blur of an airship glided through the fog, vast and dark, like the underbelly of a whale.

Pigeon poop and soggy, scattered feathers littered the wet cement. Was it here? Had he jumped from this balcony? Or the other one? She could see the second balcony from where she stood, and she half expected Logan to be standing on it, resting his elbows on the railing and looking at her sardonically as if to say, _Took you long enough._

The balcony was empty, but Caitlin answered him. "I can't believe you killed yourself, just because I didn't bring you one fucking mocha."

Of course that wasn't the reason. It was one more item in a long, long list. One line in the litany of how unremittingly shitty Logan Echolls' life had become. He hadn't bothered with a note, but she imagined him writing it anyway. _They left me, he left me, she left me, you left me. I'm leaving._  


***

_She drove to the Starbucks on Del Oro and bought two coffees, and then she sat in the parking lot of the strip mall with her hands clenched on the steering wheel of her Miata. She sat there for what felt like hours, the rain drumming on the roof, the small car filling with the warm, steamy smell of coffee. Telling herself she would see him on Monday, she would apologize, she would explain calmly and reasonably. You're still hung up on Veronica. I don't know what we're doing, where we're going, and I --_

_No. Not that. She wouldn't say that. She would say, I thought you wanted time alone with her. I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you. I promise. He'd arch his eyebrows and ask her how she planned on going about that._

_Logan, she'd laugh, you're incorrigible._

_And several other five-dollar words, he'd say._

_She didn't want that, anyway. She didn't want to take her clothes off and fuck him. Yes, she did; she did. No, she didn't. It wasn't about what she wanted. Logan could fuck any girl in town. He'd already fucked _her_, and it had been about as meaningful to him as getting a pair of socks for Christmas. If there was a way to show him how she felt, that wasn't it._

A sharp tap-tap on the window startled her and, as she rolled down the window, a mustached Sheriff's deputy in a navy-blue slicker leaned down from the rainy darkness. "Miss? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said. "Thanks, officer."

"Well, you'd better be on your way," he told her gently. "Somebody's going to be sad if you bring them cold coffee."

She laughed. She wanted to go back. Like that dumb old song her mother sang along with on the radio: you are the magnet, and I am steel. To touch Logan, to hold him, to feel him skin to skin. It terrified her, how badly she wanted to tell him everything. As if it would make the slightest difference. Right now, he was probably telling Veronica the same thing.

On Del Oro Boulevard she turned left instead of right, and she drove home.

Later, when she thought about that night, she told herself that somehow she'd known what happened. She'd known it was pointless to go back to the Neptune Grand. But, that was a lie. She'd only been scared of letting go, and falling into her own unknown.  


***

The left-hand bedroom was identical to the right-hand bedroom, except that the left-hand balcony was pristine. The freshman cleaning crew swept one balcony, but not the other? Possible. But not likely. More likely they didn't sweep either. No birds landed on this balcony, just like no one stayed in the suite.

"The balcony of no birds perching," Caitlin said.

As a Zen koän, it was never going to beat the classics, like the tree falling in the forest, or the sound of one hand clapping. But, it gave her a chill, nonetheless.  


***

_The Neptune Grand Hotel  
103 5th Street, Neptune, California, 90909  
Room 1149 (The Presidential Suite)_

_The Neptune Grand Hotel has instituted a strict policy of not renting The Presidential Suite to its guests. As a result, many people outside Balboa County remain unaware that this is one of the most haunted spots in California, rivaling better known locations such as the Queen Mary (Long Beach Harbor), and the Winchester Mystery House (San Jose)._

_In March of 2006, Logan Echolls, troubled son of notorious movie star Aaron Echolls_ (Breaking Point, Beyond the Breaking Point, The Long Haul), _leapt to his death from a penthouse balcony. Subsequently, guests staying in Room 1149 reported numerous signs of a haunting, including: mysterious footsteps, flickering lights, phantom smells of liquor and cigarettes, misplaced objects, and sightings of a shadowy figure. In addition, the glass doors of the balcony in Echolls' bedroom reportedly slide open and closed in the middle of the night._

_Female guests (particularly blondes), have been alarmed by ghostly touching and hair pulling. There are several cases of bedcovers yanked down, and more than one lady guest has discovered the next morning that her bras and panties have been pulled out of her luggage during the night._

_The Atlantic Paranormal Society (television's famous _Ghost Hunters) _investigated The Presidential Suite in 2007, but recorded no conclusive evidence. However, team member Brian Harnois claims to have followed a moving cold spot (twenty degrees lower than the surrounding air), out of the suite and down the hall to the ice machine. (See: Appendix H.)_

_Interviews with the staff of The Neptune Grand revealed numerous encounters with the ghost of Room 1149. In 2008, the hotel officially sealed The Presidential Suite, and it has remained sealed ever since. Perhaps it is only an empty hotel room; perhaps it is still the home of a movie star's son; his last, private retreat from the limelight._  


***

Logan didn't show up that evening. Caitlin imagined him somewhere just out of sight. Sulking.

She curled up in her pajamas on the ugly beige leather sectional, reading _Haunted Hotels of California._ A double mocha sat on the coffee table, slowly cooling. She'd promised him coffee. Here it was. Better too late than never.

Dropping the book on the coffee table, Caitlin said, "Logan, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I didn't come back."

It embarrassed her, talking to an empty room. He wasn't here. He'd never been here. She didn't know why _she_ was even here.

"It was such a stupid reason," she added. "I was afraid you'd ask me to stay with you. I was afraid I'd say yes."  


***

After midnight, she slid into the chilly bed and turned out the light. The musty, stale smell of the sheets rose around her like a shroud. She lay waiting for sleep in the dark. Gazing at the moonlight shining on the ice white cement of The Balcony of No Birds Perching, beyond the glass doors. Waiting for a traveling cold spot. Or phantom footsteps. Or something. Some shadow of him.

She pictured him climbing onto the railing. Standing there, not wobbling or windmilling his arms, even though it had been pouring down rain that night, and the railing must have been slick. Standing like he'd stand on solid ground. Looking back into his bedroom, maybe glimpsing a bit of the living room beyond that. The coffee table with the candles guttering in puddles of melted wax, the pizza box, the copy of _Wuthering Heights_. The empty suite.

"I trust you," he'd told her the Thursday before. "I'd do that falling-back thing with you. I know you'd catch me."

She'd thought she understood him. _I want to trust you. I want to know you'll catch me. I want this to be true._ And a little bit later, he told her she'd get fed up with catching him, and that was why she'd given up on him the first time. _Please don't give up again._ She thought she knew what he meant.

It took her years to realize Logan had meant exactly what he said. He knew she would put her hands out. Every single time. Accept him, soothe him, forgive him. And there would always be another next time. That was the way the world killed you. Blow after blow after blow. So, he'd spread his arms and done the falling-back thing, into the rainy darkness, knowing she would have caught him. If he'd given her the chance.  


***

_She dreams she saves him. She hasn't had this dream in forever. Once upon a time, she dreamed it every night. Spinning infinite variations on a theme, and every one of them burning away in the cruel light of the following morning. Sometimes she drives all the way home, then she turns around and drives back to the Neptune Grand. Sometimes she comes right back from the Starbucks, coffee steaming, full of courage and purpose. She will tell him, yes now she will say it. But, Logan doesn't answer her knock immediately. She doesn't know why and, staring at the blank, secretive door of Room 1149, a needle of fear presses deep into her sleeping heart._

_Then, he opens to the door, looking surprised._

_"Double mocha, extra foam?" she says._

_"I didn't expect you to come back," he says._

_"I almost didn't."_

_He steps back to let her in. Somehow she knows. Something is with them in the suite, unseen and so large it crushes air and light. Something in his eyes betrays it. A reflection in his pupils, so small she cannot make it out. This dark intent terrifies her._

_"What happened?" she says._

_"Nothing."_

_Of course, what she means is, What didn't happen? What almost happened? What would have happened, if I hadn't come back? He's misunderstanding her on purpose, she thinks. He looks so pale. Even his mouth is bloodless. It's only the shadow-colored shirt he's wearing. But he looks... she won't think the word. She won't give it power._

_Instead, she speaks the first thought in her head, "Logan, I love you."_

_"Caitlin," he says, and oh, there's a world of I'm-sorry in the sound of her name, there's an ocean of not-enough. She knows she's dreaming now. She knows he's dead because she never came back that night._  


***

She woke with a sudden start, lifting her head off the pillow, no idea what had snapped her awake like that. Sunlight streamed into the room, and the print of him pressed against her skin, all along her back and her legs, as if while she'd slept in his bed, he'd curled up there beside her. The sheets smelled of him. Soap, clean sweat, warm skin. She rolled over. The bed was empty, as if he'd just slipped from the covers, as if he'd stepped out of the room, the moment before she opened her eyes.

"Logan?" she murmured.

Silence replied. Caitlin lay still, watching the white curtains ripple in the morning breeze. Listening to the faint sound of traffic passing far below on Fifth Street. Over the balcony rose the cloudless blue infinity of a California sky. Then she remembered she'd closed and latched the sliding glass doors before climbing into bed last night.

The phone rang, making her jump. She stretched one hand over to the night table and fumbled the handset off the base, her body still clumsy with sleep. "Hello?"

A pause on the other end gave her time to wonder, _Does the front desk expect Logan to answer the phone? Does he usually?_

"Good morning," Gia said.

"Morning." Caitlin sat up, combing her fingers through her tangled hair.

"Sleep well?" Gia asked.

A dark flutter caught Caitlin's eye, and she glanced out the window at the balcony. Two fat gray pigeons landed on the railing and began grooming themselves. She stared at them, not daring to move. One of the birds stood up and strutted back and forth, head bobbing pompously, as if checking out the new real estate.

"Caitlin?" Gia asked.

She inhaled sharply, realizing she'd forgotten to breathe. Hot tears filled her eyes. _I won't say goodbye. I'll say... travel safe, Logan. And don't forget your damn double mocha._

"Sorry," she said to Gia. "You woke me up."

"You _did_ get a good night's sleep, then."

Caitlin wiped her cheeks quickly, even though Gia couldn't see her. "Well, the sheets need airing, but the bed is five-star."

"Thank you," Gia said dryly. "See? I _told_ you. Room 1149 isn't haunted at all."

Caitlin smiled. "No. It isn't."

THE END

***


End file.
